The DOCTRINE of Presence
Copyright 2013 by Benjamin Vance
World rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise for public use, including Internet applications, without the prior permission of the author except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or on the Web.
Cover design and interior layout by Brandi Hollister
Mullins Creative, www.MullinsCreative.com
Published in eBook format by Benjamin Vance
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN #978-0-9859168-2-4
This novel is dedicated to
those elect crusaders who choose
armed offense against the focused evil;
currently consuming lives of rare species
at a rate which may render many extinct
in the wild during one generation.
It is dedicated to
the African, Asian, Russian
and other Nationalists who risk
their professions each day,
acting with unreserved vengeance
and strategic prevention
toward that higher purpose.
And, it is dedicated to
those who tirelessly labor
to save the many orphaned offspring
of unfortunate species
whose body parts are coveted
by ignorant humans;
indulging perverted sexual delusions
and pretentious superstitions.
PROLOGUE
Do you know what evil is or what its signs are? Have you beheld its face? Do you believe all humans have an equal chance from birth to be good or bad and are basically the same; sinless or evil? If you do, sooner or later you’re in for a rude awakening.
Yeah, that classic phrase, “People are basically alike the world over”, is pure bosh. I assume myself as an example, because born and raised in the Southwest, I cannot bear to see a tree die needlessly or an animal suffer from thirst, heat or hunger; even temporarily. I know the reality; I know the pain!
These sentiments don’t seem to be on the scope of those people who live in verdant areas and have an arrogant condescension for the earth and its priceless life. I suppose that’s one reason why so many novices get stranded in our deserts and simply die there every year. They die in places that I don’t even classify as desert. As for my preference, you can have the cold places. Cold hurts my old wounds.
It could be that I over embellish. Some people say I simply can’t stand the psychological prison of incessantly pressing forests. I say given all worldly options, I would rather be able to see fifty miles in every direction, have my mornings cool, dry, filled with bird songs; my days warm and nights lit by moon and Milky Way. Some people actually enjoy New York … see what I mean?
Still … during quiet moments of faith and reflection, I wonder when, how or if … we can be redeemed for our commissions, omissions or misdirected deeds. Perhaps for some, their answer exists in the way they transition from young bloodlust to a more mature … life-respecting pathway. Perhaps … but then how does one account for the resolute lack of conscience when one puts a bullet in a poacher?
Have you ever seen evil simply collapse into a gangly pile of useless flesh when a bullet goes through its body exceeding the speed of sound, and have you gazed coldly upon its profane face? In certain instances and in the long term, it can be mentally and spiritually fulfilling. At least that’s the consensus among a number of surviving associates of mine; redeemed or not!
1
Several years ago a few of us useless idlers and motorcycle freaks attending a monthly luncheon for retired military blokes, were noisily discussing a scene from a nature program in which a group of photographers followed an elephant mother and her young offspring across the Namib Desert. The little one slowly wasted away and died right in front of the cameras … with an entire fucking camera crew watching, and doing nothing. We volubly agreed that in the same circumstances we would have gladly given up our water for the young one or for the mother so she could provide milk for her baby.
Once the mental scheme was set, the evolving monthly discussions turned gradually away from, who’s buddy died lately, the crummy state of the union or lousy military retirement pay, to what new nature program exhibited animal abuse. We were intimately acquainted with the hollow argument that nature is harsh and unrelenting and that nature photographers elect to let nature take its course for reality’s sake. We all knew it was bullshit. Most of us had seen photographers set up still pictures of combat scenes and influence movies of the genre, sometimes to the lasting detriment of the participating soldiers and even their families.
Over the months and perhaps two years of equivocation, I supposed everyone was waiting for everybody else to frame the future for them. Finally a wheel-chair ridden Charley “Gimp” Lindell asked, “Well, what the fuck are we going to do about it, just talk?” There was stone silence for at least forty five seconds during which no one wanted to look at anyone else. Some of us kept a senseless, defensive grin pasted on our faces, possibly because we’d not heard Gimp say those words before.
Since there were only five of us remaining to irritate the waitress, there didn’t seem to be any way we could rationalize to effectively approach Charley’s admonition.However, Alfred “Fredo” Alvarez finally said, “Sheeit, man we could follow some of those weenies and make sure they treat the animals properly. What else we got to do?” Then there was another forty five second séance before those of us who wished Fredo had kept his mouth shut, could answer. Greenie Mitchell put on a disarming smile and opined that, “We could find out who’re making films in the Southwest and follow ‘em or at least watch ‘em from a distance, and maybe even film ‘em if they do bad shit to the animals.”
* * *
Me … I’m Jim Hanes. It’s pronounced Ha-nes, like heinous, not like the underwear, okay? The other perpetrator in our group was Leroy “Leo” Dykehouse. Yeah, Leo got some ribbing about that last name over his life and guess what; like the boy named “Sue”, he was one tough SOB. None of us settled anything that day though. It was as if we all suddenly developed leprosy or something. It took until the middle of the month before I got a call from Fredo Alvarez. We tip-toed around the subject for a couple of minutes, then Fredo asked, “Hey Daiwee, what ‘chew think about Greenie’s comments at the last meeting, man?”
I foolishly said, “What comments?”
Fredo laughed sarcastically and snorted, “You afraid to talk about that shit, Gringo?”